Inevitable
by Little Obsessions
Summary: A boy. A girl. An open grave.


The sky is a bruised, aggressive purple, and for all she does not want to be here she can't deny that the grandeur of the setting is a balm to her otherwise reluctant attitude. The vast estate stretches so far that she can't fathom the boundaries of it, and though they only passed through the lobby of the mansion, her very fingers had itched to run over the books she glimpsed as her mother ushered her through the throng of black-clad, extended family.

And they are a beautifully presented family. Pale and onyx, the subtle hint of ancestral money and expensive education. She feels like she could slot quietly into place, amongst the muttered debates she catches about Marxism and Shakespeare, as her mother shuffles them towards the seats they have been allocated. She has so much to contribute to those conversations, so much she wants to say, but can't because it is neither invited nor appreciated in her home.

She mustn't ripple the millpond water of the Nightshade ideals, and she is so dreadfully bored of the status quo.

Her mother leads her – and her quietly frowning father and flighty sister - into a seat in the rows set out in the heart of the graveyard. They are organised in a horse shoe, curving around the casket and wrapping almost in an entire circle. The stones stretch out for what seems to be miles, each intricately and delicately carved in dedication to the person they mark. There are so many varied styles; Gothic and Art-Nuevo, Cubist and Renaissance. She vows to herself she will slip her mother's shackles to take a moment to admire, if not study, them. They hold the promise of both misery and art; two irresistible pulls in Morticia's mind.

"I feel so sad for Acrea and Alphonse," her mother mutters quietly, with an entirely-unsubtle nod in the direction of a stoic looking woman and man who are lingering around the open casket, a study in the kind of grief Morticia thinks is admirable; one of both pain and envy and joy for the adventure their dearly departed one is about to undertake.

Acrea is her mother's cousin, and quietly revered in the family for having married into an even grander family when she was promised to Alphonse Addams. She's something of an aspiration for the Frump girls, but Morticia finds her terribly dull. And if the gossip which passes between afternoon teas and baby showers is at all accurate, marriage has not been kind to her.

Morticia is starting to suspect that the male of the Addams species seems to have a reputation for less-than-gentlemanly behaviour.

"Maybe he should have behaved himself," Ophelia muses quietly, saving Morticia from making any comment.

"Whatever do you mean?" Her mother asks, pretending she is above such gossip.

"His reputation went before him. Balthazar's I mean," her sister answers, eyes never leaving his parents as they circle their son's pale corpse.

He's undeniably handsome, Mortica will admit. In death there's something of vitality, and Balthazar's body is no exception to that rule. Pale and glistening in the moonlight, the wound he endured expertly covered (more's the pity).

"You don't believe that," her mother says softly. "His cousin wouldn't have dreamed of it. The rivalry between them is just vicious gossip."

"If Balthazar's reputation went before him," Morticia finally murmurs, with a hint of a laugh, "Gomez Addams' reputation goes before him with a fanfare."

Her mother glances at her, then shakes her head, and Morticia senses that she is biting back the desperate urge to question her further. But it is hardly appropriate to extrapolate on the apparently wild habits of the famous – yet extremely elusive – heir to the wealthiest chunk of the Addams fortune, especially when they are sitting in his expansive graveyard, awaiting the funeral of the year.

He's known for his womanising, drinking, and exquisite taste in clothing. Or so her friends tell her. she decides, though, that this information isn't something she needs to share with her mother.

Her sister grins and laughs as her mother shakes her head.

The seats begin to fill up; rows of velvet and ermine and glistening brocade, and a lovely dirge begins to drift from the organ to the left of the altar. She watched the rhythmic sway from side to side of the butler as he becomes lost in his playing, and the more prominent members of the family fill their seats in the row in front, following the curve around the casket.

"Here he comes," she hears a girl behind her whisper, but she resists the urge to turn to see whoever 'he' happens to be.

The man in question swaggers to the seat directly across from her, and the lady sitting in front of her – in the first row - is so slight that Morticia has an entirely unimpeded view of him.

The first thing that strikes her – like a biblical bolt of lightning no less – is not his clothes, or his almost sinful handsomeness, but his loud, gregarious laugh which seems to cover the entire company in a joy which makes her skin tingle in a way she knows it should not.

And then everything else floods in; his slick moustache, his fine jaw, the cut of his morning suit, the way his eyes shine with unbridled delight at his companion.

And then finally – the death knell - the way they fall on her, raining sheer fire.

The whole earth grinds to a shuddering halt, and suddenly she is consumed by blackness on either side – tunnelled into locking eyes with him. No one else exists in that moment.

The wild happiness in his eyes disappears, replaced instantly with another wildness she cannot – does not want to – name.

She's not naïve; many men have turned those eyes on her before, predatory and desiring. But now it feels different, it feels as if she too is making some sort of overture.

She tries with all her might to draw her eyes away and yet, throughout, she can barely manage to breathe, he draws her in, time and again, and never once does he take them from her. Not during the eulogy, not during the part where his hirsute cousin makes gibbering reference to his recent status as the accused in the deceased's untimely and gruesome murder, not even when he is asked to say a few – eloquent – words.

She squirms in her chair, heat flushing across her skin under the satin of her dress and the heavy velvet of her cloak. She knows that she is trapped, not only by those indescribably wonderful eyes, but by the bigger predicament; if she continues to fall into them, she suspects she may never stop.

She has all but forgotten they are at a funeral, though it seems the perfect place to fall irrevocably for a man that she suspects might be dreadful for her self-control.

"Morticia. Morticia. Morticia!"

Her mother is shaking her shoulder, and Morticia realises that the casket has been lowered into the damp earth and that the celebration – at least this part – has come to a close. People are rising out of their chairs and yet he is still staring with an intensity that makes her feel un-tethered from her own sense of control. She tears her eyes away as his companion mirrors her mother, roughly shoving his shoulder to get his attention.

"Mama," she turns to her mother, a gentle hand on the other woman's arm. "Might I take a turn around the graveyard? It's so peaceful."

Her mother looks at her father, who gives his nod of approval, and she turns from them, resisting the urge to run as she begins weaving amongst the stones.

She absolutely has to find solace. Balance. Peace.

Panic, as atypical as it is, begins to rise in her chest and she moves more swiftly than she usually would, the dying bars of the dirge fading as she moves further into the maze of tombs and markers.

And in a moment's pause there is enough space for silence and she realises there are footsteps close behind her.

The exhilaration of that knowledge – for she knows exactly who those footsteps belong to – is dulled by the fear that even she is unequipped to deal with the inevitability of what will happen if she turns.

And yet, she does.

Because there are forces, she realises, much bigger than her. And so much more delicious for their promises.

He is breathless, as if he has run a gauntlet to get to her.

And that in and of itself seems just beautifully fitting for the kind of romance she is seeking.

Not that she was seeking it, until the moment his laugh made her blood sing.

"Gomez Addams."

"I know," she says softly, proffering her hand. "Morticia Nightshade."

"Have we met before?" He asks, lips lingering on at the back of her hand.

Every sensation seems to be focussed on where his mouth meets her skin, and dangerous images flit through her mind and preoccupy her curiosity about what that mouth would be capable of under more private circumstances.

She evens her breath before lifting her eyes from where he remains bent over her pale hand.

"Oh I think you would remember."

She feels his mouth curl into a hot grin against her skin, and when he stands straight he still holds her hand within his.

"I suspect it would be etched onto my consciousness, Miss Nightshade."

"With a blunt knife," she murmurs, tilting her head to the side in examination.

"That sounds promising," he answers, and runs his hand over his pomaded hair.

She remains silent, wondering what he will say next.

"I could barely concentrate," he says. "No one has ever quite…" He shakes his head, as if the thought is disconcerting.

She smiles, silent, and she hears the breath catch in his throat. A smile just for him, a smile she has never before possessed. A smile she did not know she was capable of.

"You know that this is inevitable?"

He steps towards her, and she resists the urge to step back, or fall into his arms. She can't quite decide.

"You're very sure," she murmurs, lips inches from his own.

"Completely," he answers, so close she can taste all the promises on his tongue. "You will be Mrs. Addams."

Her fingers find his, twining with his own as he steps even more into her space, and the metaphor seems inescapable.

"You have a reputation," she breathes, a memory of who she used to be reminding her of the danger he poses.

"Oh," he presses a kiss on the side of her lips, her chin, and his mouth is so close, so dangerous. "Do you believe everything you hear?"

"I believe the truth," she whimpers.

"Then believe the truth that I will never do anything other than worship you, and you will be the only thing that consumes me."

And she knows it to be true, as she knows the constellations or the verses of _The Divine Comedy._

"Ma déesse," he vows, in between fervent kisses and it occurs to her that she might not be the only one who's falling quite spectacularly.

So she falls, inevitability and worship the only music singing in her blood.


End file.
